


Scars

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Implied Past Abuse, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2012-10-13
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst of Moran's scars are not on his body but in his mind. (Contains implications of past abuse by another character.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scars

   “Stop,” Moran says, his voice unusually high and desperate. “Please… stop!”

   Strange, Moriarty thinks – Moran’s shift from there to not there. Moran’s hands have dropped to his sides, relinquishing their grasp on the professor’s waistcoat. Moran’s wild-eyed gaze is directed towards him but not at him. He seems to be looking at something far away and long ago, and the professor does not entirely understand why. Part of the reason he remains drawn to Moran is that the man is complex, an intricate puzzle formed of many layers; woven from the many tangled threads of his rather twisted morality. This… this is a new reaction; a facet of Moran that Moriarty has not seen before. He is not sure he likes it much.

   He has hit Moran before and held him down, hands tight about Moran’s wrists or forearms hard enough to bruise, pinning his body or his legs with knees or thighs. There is nothing novel about anything he has just done to him. In fact this has been rather tame so far compared to some of the actions he has inflicted on Moran before. The colonel though  _likes_  such treatment; he obtains an exquisite thrill from being dominated so. This is the first time he has reacted this way, suddenly all but begging the professor to stop. His breathing is fast and erratic; his chest heaves; his body tremors. Moriarty has never seen him appear so frightened.

   Moriarty is not one whose instinct, when faced with someone in distress, is to go to them. He would not embrace them nor murmur meaningless words of comfort to them. He does not do so now. He steps back, away from Moran, leaving him sprawling there on the sofa with his clothes in disarray.

   Moran watches him go, wary as a feral animal, yet a slight relaxing of his posture suggests to the professor that withdrawing was the correct course of action.

   Moriarty retreats further, to the sideboard, where he takes up the crystal decanter and splashes brandy into two glasses. Ordinarily he would be cautious about offering the colonel alcohol, since he has a tendency to consume rather too much during times of stress. He feels though that in this instance the brandy is solely for medicinal purposes, as well as it allowing him a means to move closer to Moran once again without his intentions being mistaken for anything worse.

   Moran sits up now but instead of sitting with his back straight he hunches over, making himself look ever so small. “I’m sorry,” he says, running his hands through his hair. He doesn’t look up when Moriarty steps closer to him again, his gaze remaining fixed to the floor. His cheeks are flushed.

   “Sebastian,” the professor says, holding one of the glasses out to him.

   Moran stares at it momentarily before taking it with a shaking hand. He takes one gulp; another.

   Moriarty watches his throat as he swallows, sipping his own brandy much more slowly. He sits on the sofa beside his companion, close but with a few inches between them. He has the sense that Moran may still bolt if he tries to touch him.

   “Moran,” he says, keeping his tone soft. “You seemed to recall something.”

   “Mm.”

   “Your father?”

   Moran looks away.

   “Sebastian, I am not your father.”

   “I know that, Professor.” Moran drains the glass and sets it down.

   “I would not harm you.”

   “I know that too sir.” Moran hunches over further, the very picture of shame and misery.

   Moriarty stares at him for a moment, trying to unravel the workings of Moran’s mind. The professor is not immune to feeling emotions, not even the softer ones, but he cannot possibly mollycoddle the sniper, nor tolerate the man breaking down. He should order Moran to pull himself together; to snap out of it; slap him if needs be. Moran usually responds to his commands; why should this occasion be any different?

   Yet still he remains in place, still and silent. Clearly Moran has demons riding on his back and scars running through him that have damaged him more deeply than any that he bears on his skin. Moriarty is angry that Moran could act so with him, with so little trust, as if he believed that Moriarty intended to beat him into a pulp or some such action. His anger though is quiet and contained. Taking this out on Moran instead of upon the man who so damaged him all those years ago would not be fair and it would do nothing but drive Moran away.

   “Moran,” he says, lifting his hand to touch the sniper’s face, but Moran flinches away from him, like an animal that has been struck too many times to be able to tell now when a hand is raised only to stroke him instead. When he realises his error an instant later he hangs his head, his cheeks burning now.

   “I’m sorry,” he says, hunching there rocking slightly, his arms wrapped around his knees now. “I’m so sorry.”

   Again Moriarty bites back his fury; calms and composes himself. “Sebastian,” he said, and there is a little sharpness in his tone, but he suppresses the worst of his anger. He holds out his hand to Moran, palm upwards, not touching him, just holding it there until Moran looks at it, then at Moriarty’s face.

   “Professor…”

   Moriarty says nothing, still merely reaches out to him, until at last Moran puts his hand on top of Moriarty’s. The professor slips his fingers through Moran’s, giving his hand a squeeze. “Do you wish for me to dispose of Sir Augustus?” he asks at last.

   “No sir.”

   “No?”

   “It’s not your fight, Professor. It doesn’t involve you.”

   “When his actions compromise you, I am involved.”

    “Please.” Moran shuffles closer and rests his head on the professor’s shoulder. “Please, don’t. I’ll deal with it.”

   “All right.” Moriarty gives Moran’s hand another squeeze. “Moran, you are my most trusted employee and my closest companion; you have my protection.”

   “I don’t need you to protect me from him.”

   “No, well, I suppose it may be rather too late for that anyway.” Moriarty narrows his eyes, contemplating this. Sir Augustus Moran is elderly now, retaining much of his brashness; his imperious manner, but weakened by age and alcoholism. He would not stand a chance in a fight against either of them, and yet still the last time he appeared in Moran’s life just a few months ago, Moran shrank from Sir Augustus. This hot-tempered killer who has faced countless wild beasts and human monsters alike without fear; the first man to ever grasp truly what Moriarty is capable of and yet who still looked him directly in the eye without blinking… he withdrew into himself at the sight of his father, turning from a strong-willed grown man into a cowed little boy. It had taken days for Moriarty to coax him back to his usual cocky state.

   The professor despises Sir Augustus Moran, and he  _would_  kill him. Any other man - or woman - who has so provoked his ire has been removed from play. Yet still Moran refuses to allow Moriarty to dispose of his father. Moriarty believes that as long as the father lives, the son will never be free, but he finds himself unable to move against his companion’s wishes and simply kill off Augustus Moran.

   “You do understand though that you are perfectly safe with me?” he says, and it is true. He has ordered the deaths of many; watched others suffer at his instruction; very occasionally even stained his own hands with blood. Moran is not like the rest though. Still the professor is not entirely sure how Moran differs, but he enjoys Moran’s company privately, as well as trusting him professionally. So long as Moran’s loyalty does not waver then Moriarty would not cause him harm and he will do his utmost to protect him, from prosecution; from injury or death; from the devils in his own mind also.

   “I know, sir; I didn’t think you were going to harm me, I just…” Moran glances away again and his face is still flushed. “Sometimes I remember things. Things I’d rather forget.” He pulls his hand from the professor’s as he tries to move away.

   “Sebastian.” Moriarty sighs. His anger has long dissipated now. It is disappointing, that Moran would flinch from him, but above all he thinks it is just extremely sad that one man – one worthless cowardly bully of a man – has been able to so damage such a proud, strong creature as the colonel. “Come here.”

   Moran perches on the edge of the sofa, watching him again. It is not wariness now that makes him reluctant to move closer though, simply shame at how he has behaved towards a man who has never ill-used him. “Professor.”

   “Come on,” Moriarty coaxes, with a tenderness that might be surprising to those few others who know what evil deeds he is capable of, though perhaps less so to anyone who has seen him feeding his beloved pigeons in the park.

   When Moran shifts closer to him again, his cheek resting against the professor’s chest, Moriarty gently kisses the top of his head. “We shall forget this little incident happened, hmm?” he says. Humiliating Moran has never been his aim, no matter what games they have played together sometimes.

   “You don’t forget anything, sir.”

   “I can forget this.” Moriarty slips his arm around Moran’s body, holding him gently.

   Moran flicks his gaze up. His body is still rather stiff, wound up with unnatural tension, but he has ceased his trembling. “Really?”

   “Of course.”

   “But what if…” Moran drops his gaze again, half-closing his eyes. “What if this happens again?” The professor’s patience is not infinite; surely he will soon grow tired of Moran if he reacts this way more than once.

   “I think you underestimate me, Moran.”

   “Never sir.”

   “Then you underestimate my regard for you.”

   Moran falls silent at this, at a loss as to how to respond.

   Moriarty rubs Moran’s side, apparently rather absentmindedly.  “Do you wish to resume what we were doing?” he asks.

   Moran hesitates. “Sir, I’d… I’d rather not. Not right now.”

   If Sebastian Moran is declining to take him up on an offer to engage in carnal acts he really must be very badly shaken indeed, Moriarty thinks. “Then we shall not,” he says, matter-of-factly. He continues to caress Moran, stroking the tension out of him bit by bit. “What would you like to do?” It seems a shame to waste this private time they have together. Too often their differing roles and Moriarty’s covering career as professor of mathematics keep them apart, or allow them no more than the briefest moments together.

   Moran shrugs. “I don’t mind sir.”

   “Shall we go for a walk?”

   “But it’s dark out.”

   “You are not afraid of the dark, surely Sebastian.” Moriarty smiles and is pleased to see a faint grin from Moran in response.

   “Course not sir. Just thought you won’t be finding any birds to feed at this hour.”

   “I think I can tolerate their absence for one evening,” Moriarty says, still smiling. “Come on then.” He pokes Moran lightly in the side. A temporary change of setting may do Moran some good, he supposes, or at least Moran’s perpetual paranoia that assassins may be lurking around every corner and behind every bush should distract him from any unpleasant recollections and his present embarrassment over his bad reaction. “And do straighten up your clothes; we do not wish any observers to assume we were on the brink of indulging in anything illegal, after all.”

   Moran tucks in his shirt and straightens his tie before he dutifully fetches their overcoats, hats and gloves. Ever attentive to Moriarty’s needs, he helps him into his coat first. Moriarty lets him do so, aware that Moran seems to need to feel useful.

    Once properly attired they step outside and Moriarty offers his arm to Moran, who eyes him suspiciously.

   “You don’t like me holding your arm in public,” Moran says, neglecting to add that he dislikes linking arms with the professor publicly also. Though he doesn’t mind being close to him, he feels that it inhibits his movements too much. He prefers to lurk about and observe everything, watching for anyone who might pose a threat to Moriarty.

   “I can occasionally allow it. We are two respectable gentlemen, after all.”

   “Speak for yourself.” Moran flashes him a smirk and there, that’s the usual cocksure colonel coming back to the fore. He slips his arm through Moriarty’s anyway and they stroll like that together down Conduit Street in companionable silence. Two outwardly respectable gentlemen, yes, but in truth the two most dangerous men in London; perhaps even in the entire country. As much of a threat Colonel Moran may be to others though, with his ability to send down death from on high with shots that would be impossible to all but a handful of others, it is likely always to himself that he presents the most danger, his talents compromised by those old scars that cut and twist through him.

    Sebastian Moran though is a project to Moriarty; a challenge – he always has been; something to be worked on and shaped and encouraged to reach his full potential. From the first moment he saw Moran something about the man intrigued him. He was damaged, yes – Moriarty could see it in his eyes from the start - but not worthless because of that damage. Other men seek to possess fine objects, pieces of exquisite porcelain, for instance, which once they are cracked and broken become worthless. Even if the most talented of men repairs the piece so that the damage is hardly visible, still it is regarded as without value. There is a parallel here with Colonel Moran, whose real damage is often well-concealed, but who has been cast aside; thrown out; deemed worthless by all of those who came before the professor. James Moriarty though does not discard fascinating objects or deem them worthless simply because of damage and long ago he recognised Moran’s talents, along with his flaws.

   He looks at Moran as they pass under a streetlamp, observing the shadows passing over Moran’s angular features. His head is up now; he’s walking taller and looking around him, alert to everything but not trying to pull away from Moriarty. On the contrary, he seems to be leaning even closer to him now than when they set out, his shoulder pressed against the professor’s. When he notices Moriarty’s focus upon him he glances at him, the lamplight flickering in his blue eyes before he bows his head again, uncertain as to why the professor is regarding him so.

   “It’s all right, Moran,” Moriarty tells him. “I was merely admiring you.”

   Moran seems to blush slightly at this, but at least this appears to be a flush of pleasure, not of mortification. Moriarty notes his pleased little smile before Moran dips his head further, so that the shadow cast by the brim of his hat obscures it.

   Moriarty has never truly considered Moran’s aesthetic qualities before, his physiognomy simply not being of any relevance to him compared to Moran’s loyalty or his other skills, but he has certainly noticed that many others seem to be immensely drawn to the colonel. Now that he has considered the matter though, he decides that Moran is pleasing to his eye. All the better then that Moran is his, if not yet quite his alone.  
  
    At times he does feel as if he is fighting a losing battle with Sir Augustus Moran for his companion’s soul, but Moriarty is used to winning. He intends to win this fight – remove the shadow of his father from Moran’s life and convince him absolutely that he will not harm him, and perhaps one day too he may also finally be able to heal Moran’s scars.

 


End file.
